


Lesson learned

by Siff



Series: Looking back [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Sillyfic, mention of past child abuse, training fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siff/pseuds/Siff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tempers rise and d’Artagnans mouth runs off with him, unintentionally hurting Athos, and leading him to learn a tad more about his mentor and friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson learned

**Author's Note:**

> So I’m pretty much stuck in all my stories. Worst writers block I’ve ever experienced. So, of course I’m trying to write myself out of it. This is just a silly, little thing.

_Whap!_

The flat side of Athos’ sword struck his shoulder and retreated just as quickly. D’Artagnan yelped and jumped back, hand rubbing at the spot where he knew a bruise would form.

“Concentrate,” said Athos, still in his stance and not even blinking. D’Artagnan glared at him.

“I am.”

Athos raised an eyebrow.

_Whap! Whap! Whap!_

Thigh, ribs and shin was hit this time. Cursing in a way that would have Aramis reach for his cross, d’Artagnan waddled backward, trying by instinct to rub the sore spot on his leg and side.

“Concentrate,” Athos repeated.

D’Artagan raised his sword again and walked up to Athos. With a quick move of his arm, he attacked, efficiently pushing Athos back towards the garrison entrance, only to retreat soon after. Athos sword swished through the air in a deadly dance of gleaming steel, and d’Artagnan was shortly mesmerized by the sight. It earned him another hit, this time close to his neck.

“Stop hitting me!” he yelled and let the tip of his sword drop to the ground.

Athos straightened from his stance. “Defend yourself and I wouldn’t be able to.”

“I’m trying,” d’Artagnan grumbled. A single look from Athos told him his mentor knew all too well that his heart wasn’t in the training.

Athos looked at him questioningly, but d’Artagnan wasn’t in the mood for talking.

“Again,” he said instead and raised his sword. Athos looked at him a few seconds more, his expression making d’Artagnan squirm. _I know you’re troubled_ , his eyes seemed to say.

D’Artagnan gritted his teeth. He was not going to talk about it. What was the point?

“Are you just going to stand there?” he asked, tone perhaps a little snarkier than necessary. Athos didn’t bite it and just raised his sword. He stood perfectly still before he stacked, quick as a cat.

D’Artagnan danced backwards, hand raised to his face to block Athos’ swift attacks, but it was only a matter of time. Athos pushed d’Artagnan’s blade downwards, and the twisted his hand, sending the it flying from d’Artagnan’s fingers.

The cold tip of Athos sword grazed his neck.

“You’re dead,” he said and them stepped back. D’Artagnan raised his hand to his neck. When he looked at his fingers, a small dot of red could be seen on his glove. He glared at Athos.

“You didn’t have to cut me,” he snarled and wiped at his neck. There was no more blood but he still felt his temper boil. Why did Athos always have to prove some kind of point.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said and reached for d’Artagnan, having quickly sheathed his sword. D’Artagnan moved out of his reach, hand still wiping at his neck.

He walked past Athos to where his sword had landed and picked it up.

“Let me see,” said Athos, once again reaching for him but d’Artagnan turned around and walked over to the table, where he grabbed his nearly forgotten cup of wine and emptied it. He grimaced slightly at the lukewarm drink.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

He truly looked sorry. They always tried not to hurt each other during practice, and they were careful to stop before any training became too heated. Accidents happened now and then. Just last month he had been the cause of a rift in both Porthos’ shirt and his arm.

But Athos didn’t have accidents. Not like this.

“Wasn’t bruising me enough?” he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance at all. He knew he wasn’t being fair. The cause for his constant distraction wasn’t Athos’ fault. More the opposite.

After a run-in with the Red Guards earlier that week that had ended badly for all of them, Treville had warned them that should just one of them step out of the Garrison without his consent, then they would all be cleaning the stables for a month.

After five days, d’Artagnan was nearly crawling up the walls. And it didn’t help that Athos constantly wanted to practice when any other Musketeer got their assignment by the hour. Besides, he hadn’t seen Constance in almost two weeks.

“Calm down, it doesn’t even bleed anymore,” Athos said but still tried to take a closer look at d’Artagnan’s neck. He stepped back.

“No worry,” he said and instead reached for the pitcher, pouring himself another cup of wine.

“D’Artagnan, I didn’t mean to cut you. Let me see.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan snorted. “Bruising, throwing me around and kicking dust into my face is fine, but a cut is suddenly an accident.”

“I apologize, but you were unfocused. Had it been a real opponent your throat would have been slit.”

“So what, this is a part of the lesson? To make me remember it better?”

He was acting out and he knew it. He expected Athos to reprimand him, to scold him like the child he was behaving as. But nothing came.

Curiosity won, as always, and d’Artagnan looked over his shoulder at Athos, and was startled to see his friend having turned as white as a sheet.

“Athos?” he said and turned around. Athos was looking at him but his eyes seemed empty, like he was deep in thought or far away in his mind. Annoyance gave in to worry, and d’Artagnan reached for Athos, carefully placing his hand on his arm.

The touch seemed to bring Athos back, but he was still deadly pale.

“Athos, I didn’t mean-“ but Athos cut him off.

Grabbing the pitcher with wine from the table, he said, “Follow me,” and turned on his heel. Quickly reaching for his doublet and sheathing his sword, d’Artagnan followed him. He expected Athos to leave the Garrison but instead climbed the stair to Treville’s office. He silently opened the door and left it open to d’Artagnan.

It was empty. Treville had been summoned to the palace barely an hour ago, and the office was dark despite the bright sun outside the windows. D’Artagnan followed only with slight hesitation. He could count on one hand how many times he had been in the office without Treville, and he never shook the feeling that he was doing something he shouldn’t when it happened.

“Light a candle,” Athos said and marched to the desk where he quickly took a large drink from the pitcher before placing it on the surface, careful of the papers lying there.

Doing as he was told, d’Artagnan quickly lit the candle on the table. Athos walked over to the window and closed the shutters, leaving them in the light from the candle.

D’Artagnan was about to ask what was going on, but Athos raised a hand, asking for silence.

Without a word, Athos began to tug his shirt free of his breeches. D’Artagnan stared, not knowing what to do, and Athos got the shirt free and continued to pull it over his head. He carefully placed it on Treville’s chair. Then he moved the candle to the edge of the desk and stepped close to it.

For a terrifying second, d’Artagnan though Athos might touch the flame with his hand, or even let it burn some other part of his body, but he did none of those. Instead, he walked as close to it as the desk allowed and turned his back to d’Artagnan.

For a moment, d’Artagnan just stared utterly confused. He wondered shortly if Athos had lost his mind, and was about to reach for the door, running to fetch Aramis. But then Athos spoke.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?” it was Athos’ back. Not something he had great knowledge about but still had seen a few times. He was mostly familiar with the few scars he saw. A large cut there, and bullet wound there. They were nothing new.

“Look closer.”

Slowly taking a step forward, d’Artagnan looked at Athos’ exposed back and the light moving across it. He couldn’t see anything but pale skin, but then…

He walked closer, though still keeping his distance out of respect – and worry – and narrowed his eyes to see better.

It was only visible when the light from the candle hit it just right. A flicker from the flame and it became as clear as fireworks on the night sky. Another flicker and it was gone, only to reappear again.

D’Artagnan stared in horror.

Littered across Athos’ back, seemingly randomly, were dozens little scars. All less than half an inch, and perfectly cut, and all silvery white in the candle light. The other scars, those clearly visible told a tale of battle fought through many years, but the small, silver ones spoke of a knife cutting swift and precise. D’Artagnan tried to count them but failed. There were more than just a few dozens, and he wondered how he’d never seen them before. But then the light flickered and they were gone, like they had never been there.

“What…?” d’Artagnan didn’t even know what to ask.

“My fencing teacher,” said Athos, his back still turned, “Thought a bit of blood made a lesson easier to remember. One lesson, one cut. That was his way of teaching. As you can see, I was a poor student.”

D’Artagnan was speechless. There had to be at least a hundred cuts. Athos shifted slightly, and the flickering of the light hit his shoulders. More cuts.

Athos looked over his shoulder, his face even more pale in the sparse candle light. He jerked as d’Artagnan reached out to touch his back. Only the tip of his fingers touched the skin but he quickly removed them again, feeling slightly sick.

“Your teacher did this?” he asked. Athos nodded and turned around and reached for his shirt.

“My father thought if prudent that his sons were taught probably how to fence, not wanting to risk any of us being an embarrassment in any way. Thomas was still too young, but he arranged for a teacher for me, and gave him free hands in his way of teaching. I was five when he came to our home.” He pulled the shirt on again.

D’Artagnan couldn’t even imagine it. He remembered how his father had taught him. His strict directions yet gentle encouragement. His constant reminder that a sword was a weapon, not a toy was some of d’Artagnan’s fondest memories. The thought of any father letting something like that happen to his child was beyond d’Artagnan’s belief.

“And your father allowed it to happen?”

Athos gave him an emotionless look. “He didn’t know. I didn’t dare to tell him. I was afraid he would think I was weak.”

“So you just… endured?”

Athos shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice. Every day my teacher would train me, and at the end he would order me to take off my shirt and brought out his knife. It barely bled but it stung for days.”

The image of a five-year old Athos standing with his back turned to a grown man wielding a knife made d’Artagnan sick to his core. Then he remembered his own words, spoken only a few moments ago.

“I’m sorry, Athos,” he said. “For what I said earlier, I didn’t mean-“ but again Athos raised a hand to silence him.

“I didn’t show you to make you feel guilty, I showed you to let you understand. I will never cut you on purpose. Never. Not even during training.”

Heat seared in d’Artagnan’s cheek, shame burning him from the inside. He had hurt Athos with his words, and still his friend had showed him something so painful. He felt deeply ashamed and very honored at the same time. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Athos smiled. “You have no reason to, but still, I accept your apology. Come,” he opened the shutters and snuffed out the candle. “We better go before Treville returns.”

He followed Athos out of the office, his mind still focused on what he had seen. At least a hundred cuts, and even more on his shoulders.

“If it was me I would hate swords,” he mumbled as they descended the stairs. Athos looked over his shoulder.

“Back then I did,” he said and sat down the bench by the table. “I did my best to avoid my sessions with him. I even threw my sword into the lake, hoping it would do it.”

“Really?”

Athos nodded, face bare of emotions. “It was discovered of course and my father had a servant thrash my backside. Couldn’t sit down for two days. Then he got me a new sword and I was back to my daily lessons.”

“How long were you his student?”

“Almost a year,” Athos said, “But then a horse threw him and his neck broke. I got a new teacher who somehow managed to teach me without drawing blood, and he taught me not only to fence, but to enjoy it too.”

D’Artagnan nodded silently, not able to forget the small silvery scars.

He nearly jumped as Athos patted him on the back. “Enough of that, d’ARtagnan. Let’s continue.” He stood up and drew his sword. D’Artagnan followed.

He drew his sword and took his place in front of Athos. He shame was still burning in him. His anger from earlier was gone, snuffed out like the candle.

Despite Athos earlier words, he wondered how the man could even stand to hold a knife. If someone had cut him every day for nearly a year, he would never go near one. And to think Athos’ teacher had done just that, and only to make a boy remember his lesson.

_Whap!_

The flat of Athos blade hit him across the knuckles and he nearly dropped his sword. He looked at Athos who smiled at him.

“Concentrate,” he said.

D’Artagnan grinned and raised his sword.

He fought with renewed energy and Athos didn’t land another hit. They barely noticed Aramis and Porthos take seats by the table and watched them train. And they barely noticed Treville’s return. They did however notice when Treville came marching out of his office, holding a pitcher in his hand.

“Who has been drinking in my office?” he yelled.

Athos quickly excused himself, disappearing with practiced ease. D’Artagnan was far less elegant but managed to run before Treville got his hands on him.

**Author's Note:**

> This was once against based on a little side story in The Serpents Gift by Lene Kaaberbøl.


End file.
